The Reed Ferguson Mystery series Box Set 3

by Renee Pawlish

  At precisely four o’clock, Detective Sarah Spillman walked down the sidewalk toward the Starbucks. She was easy to spot because she was dressed in blue dress slacks and a cream-colored blouse, whereas the other people milling about or at the Starbucks were casually dressed in shorts, T-shirts and other summer garb, myself included. She walked purposefully up to my little table and looked down on me. Although I couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark shades, I’m sure she was glaring.

  “Can I buy you coffee?” I offered.

  She shook her head. “I’m in a hurry.” She pulled out a chair, sat down, took off her sunglasses and set them on the table. “Why is it you seem to show up around my cases?”

  I grinned. “Just lucky.”

  “Listen, Ferguson.” She tapped the sunglasses on the table. “This is a high-profile case and I have to be very careful, so don’t look to me for any more help after today.”

  “Got it,” I said. “What can you tell me?”

  “What do you already know?”

  Spillman and I typically did a chaste version of “Show me yours, I’ll show you mine”, where I tried to get as much information out of her as I could, and she tried to glean from me what I’d found out on my own.

  “Charlie Preston hired me to prove his innocence,” I said.

  “And you believe him?”

  I shrugged. “Too early to tell. I know you found his gun, with his prints on it, at the crime scene. And a neighbor reported seeing Charlie leave Pete’s apartment a while after they had argued.”

  “It paints a pretty incriminating picture for Charlie,” she said.

  “Yes, it does. He says someone stole his gun.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I know from firsthand experience that what seems is not always what is,” I said, referring to my last case.

  She stared at me. “Just be careful that what happened to you doesn’t cloud your judgment.”

  “I’m going about this carefully.” I scooted my chair back and crossed my legs. “What can you tell me about the crime scene?”

  “There’s not much to tell. He was shot in the back with a Smith & Wesson Shield 9mm. He fell facedown to the floor in the kitchen and bled out quickly. The apartment didn’t look disturbed. Nothing missing that we could tell, so we don’t think robbery was a motive.” She threw me a hard look. “You keep that information to yourself.”

  I nodded. Based on what I saw in the apartment, I would concur…but I couldn’t tell her that. “Any fingerprints around, other than Pete’s and Charlie’s?”

  “Of course,” she said. “But I can’t discuss that any further.”

  Interesting, I thought. Did the killer try to wipe away prints and the crime scene investigators noticed this?

  “So you think the motive is what?” I asked. “Pete and Charlie argued and then Charlie shot Pete in anger?”

  “I’ll let the D.A worry about motive, but that’s my assumption.”

  “Charlie admits he argued with Pete and then left.”

  She let out a short laugh. “Yeah, and everyone accused of a crime always tells the truth. We have a witness who saw him leave right after she heard the gunshot.”

  “The older woman next door, right? She might be wrong.”

  “You’ve already talked to others in the building,” she said. “You haven’t wasted any time.”

  “My client is accused of murder, and until his name is cleared, he can’t play baseball, which is the most important thing to him.”

  “Other than not going to jail,” she said wryly.

  I didn’t say anything to that.

  She ran a hand through her blond hair. “That’s all you’re getting out of me.” Then she fixed a hard gaze on me. “Your turn. What did you find out?”

  I was conflicted. I didn’t have a problem sharing what Jane had said, but then Spillman would immediately go talk to Jane again, and Jane might say she saw me coming out of Pete’s apartment. Plus, she’d tell Spillman she thought I was another police detective. That wouldn’t be good. So I played dumb.

  “I don’t have anything,” I said. “Except a man who says he’s innocent.”

  She frowned. “Not very helpful.”

  “Sorry. If I learn anything more, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Disbelief was heavy in her tone. “You don’t have much to go on.”

  “I’ve been in worse places.”

  “And you found your way,” she said. She put on her sunglasses and stood up. “I’ll see you around.” She turned and strode back down the street.

  “Not if I see you first,” I said to her retreating back.

  Chapter Seven

  I stayed and sipped my macchiato, but I didn’t really taste it. My mind was a vortex of disconnected information. It didn’t sound like Spillman had established much of a motive for Pete’s murder, at least none that she was sharing. But she did have Charlie’s smoking gun – literally – at the crime scene, and that could well be enough.

  I mulled over what I’d learned. Someone had shot Pete in the back and left him to die. He had a girlfriend, or so his neighbor Jane had assumed, and he’d been arguing about money and stuff with said girlfriend. And I had Charlie, who said he didn’t know about a girlfriend, or that Pete might be in any kind of trouble. Still not much to go on.

  As I finished my drink, I thought about Charlie. I didn’t know much about him, other than what I’d read in articles and what he’d told me. Was he telling the truth or did he just hire a detective to make himself appear innocent? I tapped the table with impatience and wished Cal would get back to me with a more thorough background check on Charlie. Then a thought occurred to me. There was one other person who might be able to shed some light on Charlie. But this person was my kryptonite, the one who could drain me of my superhuman detective prowess with one conversation. Did I want that? I sighed heavily, pulled out my phone and dialed.

  “Reed, dear, how are you?” my mother said in her high-pitched voice.

  “Hi, Mother, I’m doing fine,” I said.

  I loved my mother dearly, but dreaded the thought of calling her because I knew her inevitable three worries would arise: Would my job get me hurt; would I get married and provide her with grandchildren; and was I doing drugs. And even though I’d managed to put Concern Number Two partially to rest, in the form of my steady girlfriend Willie, my mother still wondered if I was doing drugs, and she expressed a lot of reservations about my profession. Although she did recommend me to Charlie, so maybe Concern Number One was about to topple.

  “Did you get in touch with Charlie Preston?” she asked. “It’s such a shame, what’s happened to him. His parents are so nice, but this really has them on edge.”

  I could picture her, sitting on the veranda of her south Florida condo that overlooked the ocean. It was six-thirty there and she’d probably be sipping her after-dinner drink, an Alexander, the one she allowed herself on weekends.

  “Yes, I talked to Charlie,” I said, “and that’s why I’m calling.”

  “Oh?” A tone of unease. “What’s wrong? He didn’t do it, did he?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” I said, then plowed on quickly before she could say more. “How well do you know Charlie?”

  “I told you the other day when I called, he’s a nice young man.” She sniffed at my apparent lack of memory. My mother was a good sniffer, her way of letting people know she was miffed.

  “Yes, I remember you saying that, but how well do you know him?”

  “The Prestons talk about him a lot,” she said. “They’re so proud of him and how he’s achieving his dream of being a baseball player. You know, Reed, I am proud of you, too, but is this detective thing really your dream? It’s so dangerous. Look at how you got beat up on your last case.”

  “Yes, Mother, it’s what I want to do,” I said. I took my finger and made a mark in the air: Concern Number One mentioned, two to go. “Have you actually met Charlie?”

&nbs
p; “Of course.” Miffed. “A time or two when he was visiting his parents. He was very nice, and polite.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “The Prestons speak very highly of him. He never had them worried when he was growing up, he just focused on baseball.”

  “So no indication that Charlie was in any kind of trouble, or that he has a temper?”

  “No, dear. And why would you think Charlie has a temper?”

  “He’s accused of shooting someone. If it’s true, he could have an anger issue,” I said dryly.

  “Oh…well, I guess that makes sense,” she said. “But no, the Prestons have never said that Charlie was anything but nice. They have mentioned that they worry that all the money he’s making might go to his head, and they wonder if he may be partying too much, but that’s it.”

  I sighed. Looked like this conversation was a dead end. My mother didn’t know any more about Charlie than I did. But I’d gotten away without a mention of the other Concerns.

  “So when are you going to make an honest woman of Willie?” she asked.

  Damn, I spoke too soon. Concern Number Two reared its ugly head.

  “Don’t worry, Mother, I’ve got it handled.”

  “Don’t wait too long or you might lose her. You don’t want to lose Willie. She’s a gem.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, my mother had a point. In recent months, Willie and I had been discussing our relationship. I knew she wanted to be married, and so did I. I just didn’t know exactly how to pop the question. Like any guy, I wanted the timing and the scene to be perfect. Talk about pressure.

  We chatted for a few minutes longer, and for once, Concern Number Three – about me doing drugs – did not come up. I was shocked. While I was ahead, I asked to speak to my father. He and I talked about golf, and he asked about my work, careful not to ask anything about its dangers, and then we hung up. I left Starbucks and on the way to my car, I called Charlie to see if I could stop by and chat with him. He answered this time and said he was on his way home, and he agreed to meet me at his place in half an hour.

  “Come on in,” Charlie said when he opened the door. He was still in the white shorts and black T-shirt, but now he was barefoot.

  As I stepped past him, I thought I smelled booze.

  He waved a hand at the couch as he strolled barefoot and a little crookedly into the kitchen. “You want a beer?” he called out.

  “No, thanks,” I said and stared after him. He’d been drinking, probably since I left him at breakfast. Were his parents’ fears founded?

  Charlie returned a moment later with a Sunshine Wheat, made by one of the microbreweries in Fort Collins, a town about 65 miles north of Denver. He took a long drink and then contemplated the bottle.

  “It bums me out that I’m not playing, so I went to a bar to have a drink,” he explained. “But they had the game on there. Man, I can’t get away from baseball.”

  “Drinking’s not going to help.”

  He held up the bottle. “Yeah, you’re right.” Then he took another swig.

  “Pete had a girlfriend,” I said without any preamble.

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Tara.”

  I shook my head. “No, he’s been seeing someone named Maggie.”

  Charlie stared at me. “What?”

  He was genuinely surprised, or he’d taken acting lessons that had paid off.

  “You’re telling the truth?” I asked, pressing the issue. “You’ve never heard of Maggie?”

  “Never.” He looked me right in the eye. “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “One of Pete’s neighbors told me about her.”

  Charlie turned and gazed out the window. “Huh. Pete never mentioned her to me.”

  “Apparently Pete and Maggie argued about money.”

  “Oh?” His back was to me, his shoulders slumped.

  “Was he having money trouble?” I asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  I sighed. It was the answer I suspected I’d get.

  “Do you think I could talk to Pete’s parents?” I asked. “Maybe they know about Maggie.”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Could you call them for me and make an introduction? I don’t want to call them out of the blue, not with what’s happened.”

  Charlie turned back to face me. “Are you sure you need to talk to them now? They just lost their son.”

  I nodded slowly. “I know, but if I’m going to clear your name, I have to act fast to find the real killer.”

  He gazed past me, his eyes unfocused, then pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. A moment later, he straightened his back and said, “Mr. Westhaven? It’s Charlie.” Pause. “Yes, sir, I’m hanging in there.”

  As my mother had observed, he was polite.

  “Uh-huh,” he continued. Pause. “Listen, I’ve hired a private investigator to find Pete’s…uh…find who killed him. His parents know my parents. I know the timing’s not great, but he’d like to ask you a few questions. Is it all right if I give him your number? Oh, okay.” He stopped talking and held out the phone. “He said there’s no need to call back. He’ll talk to you now. If you want some privacy, you can go out on the deck.”

  I took the phone from him.

  “Hello, Mr. Westhaven,” I said as I walked out to the deck. The sun was bright in the western sky, and the sounds of traffic carried up to me as I leaned my forearms on the railing.

  “Call me Oren,” Mr. Westhaven said. His voice was high and soft, and I had to strain to hear him. For a second, I pictured him as a wispy fellow with glasses, although this didn’t fit since his son had been an athlete.

  “First, let me offer my deepest condolences for your loss,” I said.

  “Thank you.” The voice trembled for a second, but grew steady as he said, “How can I help you?”

  “I’ll get right to the point,” I said. “Was Pete dating someone named Maggie?”

  “Pete hated Maggie,” Oren said.

  I almost dropped the phone over the railing.

  Chapter Eight

  “So you know Maggie,” I said. As I talked, I watched people strolling up and down Blake Street. The Rockies game had finished, so the sidewalks were packed.

  Oren let out a little humorless laugh. “I never met Maggie, but Pete talked about her. And from what he said, I’m glad I never made her acquaintance.”

  “That’s a pretty strong thing to say about someone your son was dating.”

  “Dating?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “They weren’t dating.”

  “One of Pete’s neighbors said she saw them hugging and kissing,” I said. “Sounds like dating to me.”

  “That’s news to me. All I knew was that Pete had some kind of business dealings with Maggie.”

  “Did Pete tell you this?”

  “Not directly,” he said. “I found out by accident. He was visiting here last summer, and he kept getting phone calls. Some were personal friends, but some sounded like he was talking business, discussing supplies and when a shipment was going to come in. On one of the calls, he addressed the caller as ‘Maggie’. After he hung up, I asked him about her, and Pete said it was just some woman he was doing some business with. And he didn’t mention her again.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “So Pete’s known Maggie for at least a year?”

  “Something like that. But I didn’t know they were dating.” Regret filled his tone. He hadn’t been aware of what was going on in his son’s life. And now he never would.

  “But you think Pete hated Maggie?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “What gave you that impression?”

  “Pete said so.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes,” Oren said. “I came out to Colorado to visit a few weeks ago, and I took Pete to dinner. He worked that day, so I met him at the restaurant. When I got there, he was on the phone, so I waited nearby while he finished the call.”

  “He
was on the phone with Maggie?”

  “Yes. He didn’t see me or he probably would’ve hung up. Anyway, he said something about not being able to supply her with any more stuff. Then he got mad and swore. Then he said ‘No, Maggie, I won’t get them for you anymore and don’t threaten me again’ and then he hung up. He was so angry, he didn’t realize I was standing nearby. He called her some names and then he looked up, realized I was there and stopped.”

  “What happened next?” I asked.

  “I asked him what was going on and he said it was nothing. Then I asked if that was his business partner and he said, ‘More like a bitch than a business partner’. Which surprised me because Pete didn’t usually swear when he was around his mother or me. I asked him what kind of business, but he wouldn’t elaborate. He said he didn’t want to talk about it, but I pressed him a little and he said things weren’t going well. And then Pete said, ‘Pop, I hate the woman and wish I’d never gotten involved with her.’ ”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “That was my thought.”

  “That’s all he said about his conversation with Maggie?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And Pete didn’t mention her again?”

  “No.”

  I turned away from the sun and looked into the condo. Charlie was standing in the living room, taking slow practice swings with a baseball bat. He was oblivious to anything else.

  “I don’t suppose you have any way of getting in touch with Maggie,” I said.

  “None. Pete and I only talked about her those times.”

  “Anything else unusual with Pete?”

  He exhaled loudly. “No, sorry. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

  I took that as my signal to wrap up the call. “You’ve been very helpful,” I said.